


Habits (Stay High)

by dementorsatemysoup



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Angst, Bisexual Bucky, Break Up, Denial, Drug Use, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Gen, Helpful Steve, How Does One Write Smut, M/M, Meltdown, Multi, Not coping, Pre-Slash, Self-Destruction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-30
Updated: 2014-08-30
Packaged: 2018-02-15 08:40:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,266
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2222652
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dementorsatemysoup/pseuds/dementorsatemysoup
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bucky tries to perfect the art of not coping after a sudden breakup, and accidentally meets a meddlesome Steve in the process.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Habits (Stay High)

**Author's Note:**

> I listened to Tove Lo on repeat while I wrote this. I'm fairly certain I listened to the song Habits like 90 times and probably made YouTube wonder if I'm suffering from a breakup (I am not).
> 
> Anyway, please enjoy. I accept that some of these characters are no doubt OOC and I apologize for that. And drop me a comment if you get the chance.
> 
> I don't own anyone associated with this story.

Staying in my play pretend  
Where the fun ain't got no end  
Ooh  
Can't go home alone again  
Need someone to numb the pain  
Ooh

\--[Habits (Stay High)](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oh2LWWORoiM) by Tove Lo

* * *

 

It’s like a kick to the chest. One moment everything seems fine, they’re happy, and Bucky thinks he’s found the one, the love of his life. The next moment she’s walking away and they’re broken up and he’s alone. So utterly alone, and he can’t breathe, can’t think, can’t even move. Everything hurts and he kind of wants to die.

An involuntary sob bursts from his lips, his vision blurry, unshed tears clinging to his lashes, but he quickly reels in his emotions. Clearly she broke up with him for a reason, and while he doesn’t know why, he knows it must have been a damn good reason. So, he does what he always does, and adapts. Growing up in the system, Bucky had learned how to adapt quickly, learned how to pretend everything was fine until it became true. Mostly it was so he didn’t completely lose it, needing to be strong for Becky. This time shouldn’t be any different.

He scrubs at his eyes with the palm of his flesh hand, clearing his throat. He’s fine, perfectly fine, and to prove it to himself, he grabs his jacket off the back of a chair, shrugging it on, the familiar scent of old leather and cigarettes calming him even more. He heads towards the door, snatching his keys off the counter, letting the door close behind him with a click.

*

The club is loud, the techno music reverberating in his chest, but he merely lets the noise wash over him as he pushes his way towards the bar. Clint Barton, his oldest friend and foster brother, spots him and nods in lieu of a greeting, continuing to fill three shot glasses with Vodka.

“Weren’t you supposed to be here like thirty minutes ago,” Clint calls over the music, pushing the shot glasses towards a tipsy brunette. “Where’s Sharon?”

Bucky shrugs, pointing at the Vodka bottle still in Clint’s loose grasp. The older man raises an eyebrow but still grabs a shot glass from beneath the bar. He pours the liquor into it, pushing it towards Bucky, watching as the brunet drains the Vodka with one gulp. Bucky enjoys the way the liquid burns on its way down his throat, the pain grounding him a bit. He places the shot glass back on the bar, gesturing for another shot.

“You know, this whole silent thing is a little creepy, dude,” Clint comments as he pours Bucky a second shot.

“Don’t have anything to say,” Bucky retorts downing the shot. He gestures for a third, ignoring the worry flickering in Clint’s eyes.

“Are you going for a record?”

Bucky opts not to answer, draining the third shot just as quickly as the others, but that doesn't stop Clint from saying, “Maybe you should slow down.” Bucky shrugs, rolling his shot glass between his hands, looking down at a water ring he’s dangerously close to putting his elbow in. “You okay?”

“Fine.” Because he is; he is perfectly fine. “Can’t a guy have a few drinks?”

“Yeah, but at the rate you’re going, someone is probably going to have to carry you out of here.” Bucky shrugs again, gesturing for another shot, and Clint sighs but still pours it. “Look, man, if you want to talk about it…”

“I don’t,” Bucky answers tossing the Vodka down his throat. He stands, pulling his wallet from his back pocket, throwing a twenty on the bar. “Keep it.” He turns his back on Clint, cutting off whatever he is about to say, and heads into the dancing crowd.

A red headed woman catches his eyes, dancing by herself. Her movements were slow, sensual, almost hypnotic in a way. Bucky smirks, and she returns it, an almost predatory look in her eyes. Their bodies are flush against each other as they begin to dance, the scent of cinnamon strong in his nose, and Bucky can feel Clint’s eyes on his back but he doesn’t care. All that matters is this moment, right here. Nothing else, and no one else matters.

Bucky isn’t sure how one dance turns into sex, but he suddenly finds himself in a bathroom stall, the redhead’s legs wrapped around his waist, her hands working at his belt while her tongue becomes well acquainted with his mouth. His flesh hands snakes up her skirt, his bionic one wrapped around her waist, keeping her in place, her back pressed into the stall door.

Afterward, she stands in front of the bathroom mirror, fixing her makeup, while Bucky stands against a wall, his eyes downcast, regret having made itself at home in his stomach while sorrow wrapped a delicate hand around his heart and squeezed.

“Thanks,” she says as she saunters out of the bathroom. Bucky runs a hand down his face, attempting to compose himself, and waits a few seconds before following the redhead out of the bathroom. He makes sure to avoid the bar, not really in the mood for Clint’s judgmental stare, and heads out of the club. He ends up at a hole-in-the-wall bar, sitting on a stool, doing shots of Jack.

*

Bucky is sure his brain is trying to push its way out of his skull. He groans, loud and long, peeling his eyelids open. The sun nearly blinds him, a piercing ball of light drilling into his brain and making his headache spike tenfold, and he slams his eyes shut.

“Are you okay?” a voice asks from above him.

“What?” Bucky’s voice is hoarse; his mouth tastes like something has died in it. He opens his eyes a second time, the sun now blocked out by a large shadow hovering over him. “What?”

“I asked if you’re okay,” the shadow says, leaning down until a blond man comes into focus. “You kind of passed out in my front yard.”

“Did I?” Carefully, Bucky sits up, finding himself on the ground, an unfamiliar green house directly in front of him. “Huh,” he says rubbing the back of his head.

“Bad night?” the blond offers Bucky a hand, amusement and worry in his blue eyes.

“Something like that,” Bucky replies accepting the hand. He’s pulled to his feet, his balance off a bit, and he clings to the blond for a moment, just until he’s capable of standing on his own.

“You want some coffee?”

“Uh, sure,” Bucky answers nodding his head.

“Alright.” The blond leads the brunet towards his house. “I’m Steve by the way.”

“Bucky, or James if you’re my sister.”

“I’m pretty sure I’m not your sister,” Steve jests and Bucky gives him a pale smile. Inside, the taller man heads into the kitchen, Bucky slowly following him, looking at all the paintings and photographs on the wall.

The kitchen is a bit of a mess, papers scattered on the table, dishes in the sink, but it doesn’t bother Bucky much. His apartment isn’t exactly the epitome of clean, Becky always on his ass about keeping his place semi-clean.

“Here.” Steve hands over a red and gold mug, brimming with black coffee, and Bucky wraps his hands around the porcelain, the heat warming his flesh hand. Steve pours more coffee in a green and purple mug, gesturing towards the table with his head. “Take a seat. Don’t mind the mess.” He looks a little embarrassed, but Bucky shrugs and heads towards the table.

Steve joins him a moment later, shoving the papers to the side, offering Bucky a smile. He’s not exactly Bucky’s type (Bucky has decided all blonds are not his type), but he’s got a gorgeous smile. He’s also a bit too trustworthy for his own good, but it’s just not worth pointing it out.

“So, do you make it a habit of passing out in random yards?” Steve gives Bucky an expectant look over the rim of his coffee.

“Oh yeah,” Bucky answers, sarcasm evident in his voice. “I’ve covered every house on this block. Yours was the last.”

“I hope my yard was comfortable for you,” Steve retorts with an easy going smile. “I try to keep it mowed just in case someone decides to take a nap.”

“That’s awfully kind of you.”

After his mug is empty, Bucky bids Steve goodbye and starts the long walk home, declining the guy’s offer to give him a ride. He’s not sure where he is at first, but eventually he finds a street sign he recognizes. On the way, he pulls his cell phone from his pocket, turning it back on, finding sixteen texts from Clint and three missed calls from Becky, and he immediately calls the latter.

“I’m fine,” Bucky says when Clint answers.

“Where the hell have you been?” Becky snaps no doubt snatching the phone from Clint.

“I’m fine,” Bucky repeats wanting so bad to roll his eyes but afraid they’d pop out of his skull if he tried. “Look, I’m about five blocks from my apartment, I’ll be home soon.” He hangs up before Becky can say anything else, shoving his phone in his back pocket, and ignoring it when it starts ringing.

He makes it home twenty minutes later, Becky waiting for him on his couch. Clint hovers behind her, clearly unsure if he should sit down, wearing the exact clothes he had been wearing the night before. Both look as if they haven’t slept, and Bucky feels a little guilty for making them worry.

“Where have you been?” Becky demands, pushing herself to her feet and crossing the room to stand in front of her brother. Even at five-four, she can be scary when she wants to be, with her flaming red hair and fierce blue eyes. Bucky takes an involuntary step back, running into the doorway. “Both Clint and I tried to get a hold of you, and when you didn’t answer we tried Sharon, but she said you two broke up. What the hell James?” she shoved at his arm, clearly holding back the urge to slap him.

“I went out,” he replies with a shrug, moving around his sister and into his small kitchen. “Besides, I’m a big boy Beck, I _can_ take care of myself.” He digs a glass out of the cupboard above the sink, filling it with water.

“One phone call, James. One.” Becky crosses the room, stopping just short of the kitchen. “Anything could have happened to you and neither of us would have had a clue how to find you.”

“I’m fine,” Bucky says dropping two Alka-Seltzer tablets into his water.

“Did you and Sharon really break up?” Clint gives Bucky a sympathetic look when the brunet nods. “That sucks, dude.”

Becky, clearly torn between continuing to scold her brother and comfort him, sharply asks, “What happened?”

Bucky shrugs, chugging the water. The seltzer is nasty going down, and he makes a face, but it’s been known to help his hangovers in the past, so he doesn’t complain.

“There has to be a reason,” Becky insists crossing her arms.

“She mentioned something about seeing other people,” Bucky answers with a shrug, putting his glass back on the counter. “Look, I’m tired and need a shower. Can we do this later?”

Becky looks as if she’d rather finish this now, but Clint gets that Bucky needs time. Gets that he needs to process things, and slowly moves forward, gently gripping Becky’s elbow. He says something quietly to her, and she shakes her head stubbornly. He says something else, and she finally rolls her eyes but nods.

“Call me later,” she commands as she and Clint head towards the door. “If I don’t hear from you by five I’m going to seek you out personally. Do you hear me James?” He waves his hand, not even bothering to look her way, and he hears Becky sigh in frustration before Clint closes the door behind them.

*

After a long shower, Bucky feels more human. As he's drying himself off, he spots the purple toothbrush Sharon had insisted on keeping at his apartment. Along with her travel size shampoo and conditioner, sitting next to her soap.

Bucky leaves the bathroom, heading into his bedroom, pulling on a pair of sweats. He finds an old shoebox in the bottom of his closet, carrying it back to the bathroom. He tosses all of Sharon’s stuff into it, finding more of her things in the medicine cabinet. When the box is mostly full, he takes it into the kitchen and dumps the entire thing in the trash.

He opens the fridge door, yanking the bottom drawer open, dragging out a beer. He nudges the drawer closed with his foot, shutting the fridge, and pops the cap off his drink. He tosses it towards the trashcan, missing the shot, but shrugs and moved towards the couch.

He sinks into the cushions, grabbing the remote off the table, and turns on the TV. He casually flips through the channels, finding nothing remotely good to watch, and opts to scroll through the stuff he DVR’d. He finds a lot of shows and movies Sharon recorded, and promptly delete everything, turning the television off.

He leans his head back, swigging the last of his beer. He tries not to think about Sharon, thinks about Steve instead, silently wonders what the guy’s doing right now, decides he really doesn’t care. He stands, returning to the kitchen. He throws his bottle away, grabs another beer from the fridge, and goes into his bedroom.

Sharon left some clothes in his closet, her lotion sits on his nightstand, a few of her books are stacked on his dresser. Bucky puts his beer down on the nightstand, moves towards his closet. He pulls all of Sharon’s clothes out, tosses them on his bed. He finds another box, in his closet, on the top shelf , this one from a package he had received months ago, and proceeds to shove all her things into it. This time, he doesn’t throw the box away, opting to leave it by his bedroom door. He can always have Becky or Clint take the box to Sharon’s later.

He’s about to leave the room, but he spots a framed photo sitting on his bookshelf. He doesn’t remember who took it, but it’s him and Sharon standing on a bridge, the latter leaning against the former, both watching the sunset, neither aware of their photo being taken. When Bucky had first saw it, he had made a joke about how cheesy it looked, and Sharon had laughed, but nodded in agreement. Why they kept it, Bucky didn’t know, but there it sat, a reminder he did not want. He grabs the photo, tossing it into the box, and walks out of the room.

*

The guy is only an inch or so shorter than Bucky, his hair buzzed short, his eyes a rich, dark brown. It’s the tail end of a bachelor party, the guy's friend Riley getting married in a week, and the guy clearly isn’t as sober as he claims to be, but neither is Bucky.

They leave in a cab, the cabbie throwing them furtive glances as he drives to the guy’s place. It probably doesn’t help that Bucky is practically in the guy’s lap, nipping at his ear while his hand strokes his thigh. Clearly, the cabbie is one of _those_ people, but he also doesn’t want to lose his job, so he keeps his mouth shut.

When the cab stops out front of their destination, Bucky tosses three twenties at the cabbie, muttering, “Keep it.” He drags the guy from the cab, barely paying attention to the cabbie driving away, and they stumble inside.

Bucky wakes hours later to the smell of bacon and eggs, and the unmistakable sound of Marvin Gaye. His head is killing him, but regardless he knows he’s not in his own bed. He opens his eyes, a framed  poster of Jimi Hendrix looks back at him. Slowly he sits up, the blanket falling from his shoulders and pooling at his waist.

He finds two Advil and a glass of water on a mahogany nightstand. He takes the pills, aiding them down with the water, and gets out of bed. He finds his jeans on a chair, his shirt on the floor, and he pulls both on, padding across the dark carpet and out of the bedroom.

The guy from last night is standing at the stove, scrambling eggs, softly singing along with Marvin. He swung his hips back and forth, head bobbing in time with the music, and Bucky can’t help the small chuckle.

“Good, you’re awake,” the guy says over his shoulder, his dark eyes resting on Bucky. “You mind getting the orange juice out of the fridge?”

Bucky crosses the room, opening a sleek, black fridge. He pulls out the orange juice, closing the door with his hip, and moves towards the table. The guy meets him halfway, placing two plates on the table, and hooks an ankle around one chair, pulling it out.

“I’m Sam, by the way,” the guy introduces taking a seat.

“Bucky,” Bucky replies sitting opposite of Sam.

“I know it’s not traditional one night stand etiquette, making breakfast, but I thought why the hell not.” Sam offers Bucky a small smile, and the brunet returns it, digging into his food. In a way, Sam reminded Bucky a bit of the guy from yesterday, Steve.

After breakfast, Bucky helps Sam clean the dishes then leaves after a quick goodbye. He’s just closing the door when he hears a voice say, “Hey.”

Bucky looks around, his blue-gray eyes settling on a familiar blond waving at him, and he feels a small smile spread across his face. What are the odds? He steps off Sam’s porch, walking next door. Steve is standing in the driveway; he's wearing sweats and a plain, white t-shirt, the newspaper in his hand, his hair sticking up in the back, and Bucky has to admit it’s an adorable look on him.

“What are you doing here?” Steve asks, mirth in his eyes. “Not passing out in anyone else’s yard are you?”

“Uh, no.” Bucky glances over his shoulder at Sam’s, rubbing the back of his neck. “I was just leaving a friend’s place.”

“Ah. Another fun night?”

“Something like that.” Bucky looks back at Steve, the blonde’s face unreadable, and says, “So, uh, it was great seeing you again, Steve.”

“You too, Bucky.” Steve offers him a half smile before nodding towards his front door. “You want some coffee before you head home?” Bucky very nearly declines, but for some reason he nods and follows the taller man inside.

*

Work is long and boring, and Bucky usually spends most of the day surfing the net and IMing Clint. His boss, a goateed man named Tony, doesn’t usually leave his office, but every so often he’ll send his assistant Pepper out to do his bidding. Bucky suspects the redhead secretly runs the company so Tony could spend most of his day toying with his inventions in the privacy of his office.

He shares a cubical with a quiet man named Bruce. Neither man has much in common, and usually they don’t speak, but sometimes Bucky will glance over at the older man and ask him for printing paper or the time. They have a very serious work relationship, he and Bruce.

Today Bucky is playing online Scrabble with Clint and red-in-my-ledger-84 (whoever that is), when Bruce leans over and says, “Xenophile.”

“What?” Bucky glances over at the Bruce, his eyebrows furrowed.

“You can make xenophile.” The older man points at the screen, right around the edge. “It’s on a triple word score, too.”

“Thanks.” Bucky plays the word, pushing himself into the lead and Clint sends: _You got help, you ass._

 _How do you know,_ Bucky types back, turning to look at Bruce. “Do you want to play the next game?”

“No thank you.” Bruce offers Bucky a pale smile before returning to his computer.

 _How’s the whole breakup thing going,_ Clint sends while they wait for red-in-my-ledger-84 to take their turn.

 _I don’t want to talk about it,_ Bucky sends back with a frustrated sigh.

_Are you still sleeping around? That can be very dangerous dude._

_Thanks Mom._ Bucky hopes Clint feels his irritation when he reads the words. _Besides, I’ve slept with two people, and both times we were safe._

 _Condoms are only 97% effective, dude_.

Bucky decides not to respond, leaning back in his chair. Red finally takes their turn, Clint goes next, and he suddenly doesn’t want to play anymore. He types: _Boss is coming. Gotta go._ And signs out before Clint could say anything else.

“He’s right you know,” Bruce states without looking up from his computer. Bucky rolls his eyes and lays his head on his desk, wishing he were anywhere else.

*

He wakes several days later, in bed with two people, with a slight hangover. He doesn’t recognize either, but he thinks he met them at the club. The smaller of the two is a dark haired woman, with pouty lips and curves in all the right places, while the other is a long, sallow looking male. Bucky wonders if these two are a couple as he slowly gets out of bed, but he realizes he doesn’t exactly care. He just wants to get out of there as soon as possible and before they woke up.

Quietly as he can, he collects his things, getting dressed in the hallway. He leaves quickly, closing the door behind him, stepping off their stoop. He’s not exactly sure where he is, so he just starts walking in one direction, hoping to run into something or someone familiar.

He’s been walking for a little under ten minutes when a car pulls up to the side of him. The passenger window rolls down and a familiar voice calls, “Bucky?” Bucky ducks down, eyes landing on Steve, and he gives the blond a small wave. “What are you doing out here?”

“Walking.” He shrugs, giving Steve a sheepish grin.

“Get in.” Bucky almost says no, but he’s lost, hungover, and tired of walking. So, he pulls the door open and ducks inside, closing it. Steve puts his car into drive, pulling back into the road.

“We’ve gotta stop meeting like this,” Bucky jokes with a grin, but it wavers when Steve doesn’t take the bait. They fall silent, the blond maneuvering the roads with ease, clearly having taken this way a few times in the past.

“Are you okay?” Steve asks breaking the silence.

“Me? Yeah, why wouldn’t I be?” He looks away from Steve’s worried look, glaring out the window. Everything is perfectly _fine_. He doesn’t know why anyone won't believe him, and why is it any of Steve’s concern. They hardly know each other.

Steve parks his car across the street from a diner, turning it off, pulling his keys from the ignition. Bucky gives him a questioning look and the blond shrugs and says, “You look like you need coffee.”

“Careful, Stevie, I’ve heard coffee is addicting.”

“So is alcohol,” Steve mutters so quietly Bucky almost doesn’t catch it. Before the brunet can argue, Steve has already thrown his car door open and gotten out. He’s halfway across the street before Bucky follows him.

It’s quiet inside the diner, only one table occupied by two older men, two chairs pushed to the side to accommodate for one of the men's wheelchair, a chess board sitting in the middle of the table. A blond man, anywhere between mid-twenties or early thirties, greets them with a smile, telling them to sit anywhere in a booming voice.

They sit in the back, in a booth. Steve grabs the menu out of the holder, burying his face in it, while Bucky studies the blond. He’s tense, clearly a little annoyed, and Bucky suspects both emotions are directed at him.

But why? Why does this man, who doesn’t even _know_ Bucky, care what the brunet does with his time? It doesn’t make any sense, but before Bucky can ask, the man who greeted them stops by their table.

“Coffee?” he offers in his booming voice, holding up a half full pot. Steve turns his cup over, Bucky copies him, and their waiter pours each one coffee. He walks away, giving them more time to figure out their order, refilling the two older men’s cups before disappearing into the back.

“How did you lose your arm?” Steve asks curiously, breaking the tense silence between them, and startling Bucky.

“What?”

“Your arm?” Steve points to Bucky’s bionic arm, his eyebrows raised in inquiry.

“Car accident,” Bucky answers shaking his sleeve so it covers his metal hand. “My foster brother Clint lost 80% of the hearing in his left ear in the same accident.”

“I’ve never seen a bionic arm before,” Steve comments adding sugar to his coffee.

“It’s an experimental thing.” Bucky shrugs, not really comfortable talking about his arm. He’s actually surprised the metal arm thing hadn’t come up with the people he had been with lately. Usually that’s the first thing anyone points out.

“So, foster brother?” Clearly, Steve picks up on Bucky’s discomfort, and changes the subject. It’s not his fault he changed it to _another_ subject Bucky doesn’t like talking about.

“My parents died when my sister and I were young,” Bucky answers quickly, but whatever Stever wants to say is cut off by their waiter’s return.

“I recommend the pancakes,” he says as he flips open his order book.

“Alright.” Steve closes his menu, replacing it in the holder. “Give me a stack of pancakes.”

“You will not regret it,” their waiter, whose nametag says Thor, replies writing down Steve’s order. “And you?” he turns his attention to Bucky, his eyebrows raised expectantly.

“I’ll just have toast.”

“As you wish.” Thor writes down Bucky’s order, nods at both Steve and the brunet, and heads back towards the kitchen.

Bucky leans back into his seat, resting his arms on either side of him, spreading his legs. He fixes Steve with a curious look. He smirks, quirking an eyebrow, and asks, “Why are you suddenly interested in me?”

“Well, you passed out in my yard, slept with my friend, and I just found you wandering around the warehouse district. Need I continue?” Steve holds the brunet’s gaze, worry and disappointment flickering across his face, and for a moment Bucky feels like he’s being scolded by a parent.

The smaller man leans forward, resting his arms on the table, and whispers, “I’m not your problem.”

Steve breaks eye contact with him, staring into his mug, and softly says, “I guess you’re not.”

The two men fall into another tense silent. Bucky taps his fingers against the table, needing a cigarette, but he ran out last night. He jiggles his leg, rattling the silverware on the table. Some of his coffee spills over the edge, leaving a dark puddle around the mug, but he ignores it.

Thor returns with their food, giving each man their order, and says, “Enjoy.”

“Thank you,” Steve replies with a semi-forced smile, and Thor nods, looking up as the door opens. His face breaks into a grin and he moves towards the entryway.

“Brother!”

Bucky glances over his shoulder, feeling his stomach clench in surprise. He _knows_ the newly arrived couple, having left their place not even thirty minutes ago. He looks away quickly, shielding his face with his hand.

“Problem?” Steve quirks an eyebrow, his blue eyes flicking towards the couple. “Do you know them?”

“No.” Bucky knows he answered too quickly, especially when Steve’s eyes snap back to him. He sinks deeper into his seat, pulling his hood over his head. “Stop looking over at them.”

“Why?” Amusement and something else, something Bucky can’t identify, flit in his eyes. “Afraid they might want a round two?”

“Shut up.” He slides even deeper into his seat, his eyes nearly level with the table. He pulls a pair of black Ray-Bans from his jacket pocket, shoving them onto his face, nearly poking himself in the eye. “Of all the places…”

“Not what you were expecting?” Steve jabs a fork at his pancakes. “Last night’s mistakes coming back to haunt you in the daytime?”

“Fuck you.” Bucky shreds his toast, his face burning. Steve snorts humorlessly, shaking his head, and shoves a piece of pancake into his mouth.

“You know, in a way, there’s a lesson to be learned here.” Bucky rolls his eyes, but Steve doesn’t catch it. “Drinking every night, having sex with anyone willing, just so you don’t have to feel anything, isn’t exactly the healthiest lifestyle.”

“Oh, so, you think you’ve got me figured out?” Bucky’s voice shook with barely controlled anger, and he sits up just a little straighter. He jabs his finger into the table and hisses, “You don’t anything about me. We aren’t even friends.”

“Buck…”

“Just leave me alone, Steve.” Bucky swiftly gets to his feet, spilling more coffee when his legs hit the table. He pulls out a couple bills from his wallet, throws them on top of his half-shredded toast, and storms out of the diner, ignoring an excited voice that says, “It’s him, Loki! I told you it was him!”

*

After his argument with Steve, Bucky takes a long walk around the neighborhood, only to find himself at a dive bar. A bottle of beer sits in front of him, half empty, and he's hunched over on the stool. He picks at the shelled peanuts sitting in front of him, leaving a pile of shells and naked peanuts next to the bowl.

“You’re supposed to eat ‘em, bub,” a deep, gruff voice says and Bucky looks up to see a wild looking man glaring at him.

“Not exactly hungry,” he replies a little sarcastically, and the guy’s eyes narrow. He takes the bowl from Bucky, carrying it a little ways down the bar, and puts it in front of guy wearing a red shirt and a pair of dark red face goggles.

“For me? Logy you shouldn’t have,” the guy teased with a grin and the bartender’s eyes go heavenward. “But I didn’t get you anything. Would you accept my eternal gratitude?”

“Just order something, Wilson,” the bartender growls, his glare darkening, “or get the hell out.”

“Pushy pushy,” Wilson says in a singsong voice. He pushes his face goggles down just enough so he can look over them. “Deadpool doesn’t like your attitude.”

“Stop calling yourself that.”

“It’s my alias.”

“It’s stupid.”

Wilson looks insulted, his mouth falling open. He crosses his arms tightly against his chest, looking away. “I may have to take my business elsewhere.”

“Good.”

The bartender walks away, and Wilson sticks his tongue out at him. He looks away from ‘Logy,’ his eyes settling on Bucky. “Hello.” He slides off his stool, moving towards the brunet, a smirk on his face. “Fancy meeting you here.” Bucky offers him a single look before returning to his beer.

“You know,” Wilson leans forward, his lips close to Bucky’s ear, “you look like you could use a little fun.”

“Fun huh?” Bucky turns to Wilson, quirking one of his eyebrows. “What’d you have in mind?”

“It depends. You got six tons of ice cream, a model named Yolanda, and sixteen chickens?” When the brunet shakes his head, an amused yet wary look on his face, Wilson sighs. “Alright, we’ll save that for a later date. But I do have a baggie of the finiest of the finest Mary Jane. And I don’t mean the song by Rick James.”

Bucky drains the rest of his beer, placing it back on the counter, and shrugs. “Why the hell not?”

“It’s like you’re a man after my own heart.” Wilson leads Bucky out of the bar, adding over his shoulder, “Just as long as you plan to keep my heart inside my body. Deadpool quite likes keeping his body parts where they belong.” At the questioning look Bucky shoots him, Wilson says, “It’s a long story involving Mexico, a woman named Lola, and a bathtub full of ice.”

*

The last time Bucky did any sort of drugs he had been in high school. He and his buddies, Dum-Dum and Gabe, used to sit behind the bleachers at football games and pass a joint back and forth. They had to stop when their principal, Fury, found them and threatened to expel them from school.

He doesn’t remember weed being this strong, and has to remind himself it’s been over ten years since he’s smoked anything stronger than cigarettes. Wade, Wilson having said his first name six times, takes the hit like a champ, holding the smoke in for several seconds before blowing it out his nose. He offers Bucky the joint, but one puff has the brunet coughing.

“Come on, lightweight.” Wade takes the joint from Bucky, taking another drag from it. “Here, hold still.” He crawls over his van's gear shift, moving towards the brunet, straddling his hips, and blowing the smoke into his face.

Bucky leans forward, capturing Wade’s lips with his, and they lazily kiss for a bit. Wade pulls back first, resting his forehead against Bucky’s, and softly says, “I forgot to mention the joints are laced with LSD.” Bucky’s eyes must widen because Wade starts laughing. “Just kidding. LCD can’t be smoked, dumb dumb.” He knocks on the other man’s head, grinning at him, and Bucky scowls.

“Oh, such a grumpy face.” Wade squeezes Bucky face between his hands, moving his fingers up and down. “You’ll give old Logy a run for his money.” He crawls off of Bucky, returning to his seat, and reaches underneath it, pulling out a bottle of tequila.

“Was saving this for a rainy day,” he says popping the cap off, “but I guess 65 and cloudy is close enough.” He takes a swig, offering Bucky the bottle, and the brunet accepts it. He takes a pull on the bottle, grimacing, knowing right away by the ‘nail polish remover’ taste that it’s not an expensive brand. “What, were you expecting luxury.”

“Nah, this is fine.” Bucky takes another sip before handing the bottle back to Wade. They hand the bottle back and forth for a while, passing the joint between them, until the latter is gone and the former is mostly empty.

Bucky stumbles out of Wade’s van, lazily waving goodbye to the other guy, and starts the long walk home. Twice he takes a wrong turn, laughing hysterically each time, nearly running into a fire hydrant the second time.

He’s not sure how, exactly, he ends up outside Steve’s house, but he’s standing next to the blonde’s car and yelling, “Steve! Stevie Steve Steve! Come out and play, Stevie!” The door swings open and Steve appears on the porch, arms crossed, disappointment and worry in his eyes.  “Oh,” Bucky hiccups, stumbling a bit, “there you are.”

“Bucky, you’re drunk,” Steve points out uncrossing his arms, letting them hang loosely at his sides. “Do you need a ride?”

“Nah, Stevie. I jus’ came to apologize…” He curtsies and loudly says, “I’m sorry!”

“It’s fine, Buck,” Steve replies with a sigh, running a hand through his hair. “Look, are you sure you don’t need a ride.”

Bucky studies Steve for a brief moment before letting his eyes flick to the blonde’s car. He really doesn’t feel like walking all the way home and Steve’s really pretty. One ride isn’t going to hurt. So he nods, already heading towards the passenger side.

Steve ducks back inside for a few seconds, returning with a set of keys. He closes and locks the door behind him, heading towards his car, slipping into the driver seat. He puts the key into the ignition, starts the car, but doesn’t put it in drive.

Steve looks as if he wants to say something, but he just shakes his head and asks, “Where do you live?” It takes Bucky a few minutes to answer, his muddled, beer-addled brain unable to give him the information, but when he does recall the address he rattles it off for Steve.

They drive in silence, Steve’s eyes on the road, Bucky’s on Steve. All Bucky really wants to do is reach over and touch Steve’s face. He doesn’t know why, and he doubts he’d be allowed, but it doesn’t stop him from really, really wanting to. In fact, he almost _needs_ to touch Steve.

“Buck, do you have anyone you can…?” Steve trails off when Bucky pokes his face. He gives the brunet a wary look, his eyebrows raised, and Bucky gives him a sheepish grin, pulling his hand back. Steve shakes his head, looking away from the other guy. “Do you have anyone to talk to about what’s going on with you?”

“I’m fine,” Bucky grumbles looking away from Steve. This is exactly why he won’t talk to Clint or Becky. They keep bringing up his breakup with Sharon, wanting to _talk_ about it. Bucky doesn’t _need_ to talk about it. He’s perfectly fine, has moved on, and doesn’t need his siblings’ pity.

“I’m sure they don’t pity you,” Steve says quietly, flashing Bucky a worried look. Wow, so clearly the weed and alcohol in his system have eliminated his brain-to-mouth filter. Good to know. “So, Sharon is the reason you’ve…?”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Bucky states, cutting Steve off, looking away from the blond, scowling out the window. “I’m perfectly fine. I don’t _need_ to talk about her.”

“Clearly you do,” Steve mutters.

“Clearly you need to mind your own damn business,” Bucky snaps fixing the blond with a hard stare. “We were together, and now we’re not. It’s no big deal.”

“Bottling it up isn’t healthy,” Steve points out, trying to reason with the smaller man.

Bucky sighs in frustration, clenching his teeth as he says, “Why do you care?”

“Why _don’t_ you care?” Steve retorts, his voice much quieter than Bucky’s.

“You think I don’t care?” he hisses looking away from the larger man. “You think I don’t care?” he repeats squeezing his eyes shut, suddenly very tired and very sober. “Pull over.”

“Buck…”

“Pull the fucking car over Steve or I’ll do it for myself.” With a sigh, the blond complies, parking against the curb. Bucky shoves the door open, ignoring Steve when he tries to call him back, and gets out. He slams the door, storming away from the car, shoving his hands into his pocket.

What the fuck did Steve know? Nothing, that’s what. He didn’t know a goddamn thing about Bucky, and to have him insinuate that Bucky didn’t care about Sharon; didn’t care that they were no longer together. Could he not hear just how ridiculous he sounded?

Sharon and Bucky were together for nearly a year. Bucky had shared more with her than he had shared with anyone. He had even told her exactly what had happened the day he lost his arms, right down to Clint and Bucky’s foster dad rolling his car into a ravine, how the older man felt cold when Bucky tried to wake him. How Bucky could barely keep his eyes open, so much blood and his arm had barely been attached by this point. All because a teenager had looked away from the windshield at the wrong moment; Sharon knew everything. She had been the first person that had solely been Bucky’s, someone he didn’t have to share, so fuck Steve. Fuck him and his accusations that Bucky didn’t care because Bucky cared. He cared way more than he should.

He loved her, he loved her with everything he had, and she left him. She left him alone, and he doesn’t know what to do. Someone needs to tell him what to do.

A sob bubbles up in Bucky’s throat, a single tear breaking free from his left eye and rolling down his cheek. He angrily wipes at it, but a few more replace it. He sniffs, slowly sinking onto a nearby bench, burying his face in his hands. A second sob bursts free, followed by another, and tears start falling rapidly from his eyes. He should probably be embarrassed, having a meltdown in public, but he just can’t bring himself to care right now.

He’s not sure how long he sits on the bench, but eventually he calms down. Slowly, he looks up, his nose clogged, his eyes puffy and raw. He rubs at his wet face, slowly getting to his feet, and starts walking. He doesn’t go home, instead he finds himself out front of a familiar, rickety gate.

He pushes the gate open, moving towards the front door. He raps on it, putting his hands in his pocket, taking a step back when Clint opens the door.

“Can I come in?” he asks hoarsely, sniffing, no doubt looking pathetic. Clint gives him a sad smile, but moves aside, allowing him inside, closing the door behind Bucky.

*

It takes a full week before Bucky can bring himself to drop off Sharon’s box. Becky was supposed to do it, but she felt it’d be in her brother’s best interest if he did it himself. It’d be closure for him. Bucky’d rather live with no closure, but Becky did that weird half glare thing and he relented.

Sharon answers the door after the second knock, her blonde hair in a messy ponytail. She gives Bucky a half wary, half curious look before saying, “It’s good to see you.”

“Likewise,” he replies holding the box out to her. “I brought you your things.”

“Thank you.” She takes the box from him, putting it down by her feet, next to the door.

They stand awkwardly for a moment, neither one looking at each other, but finally Bucky has to ask. “Why? Why did you breakup with me?”

Sharon gives him a sad smile and says, “Because I wasn’t in love with you anymore, James.”

Bucky wants to argue, wants to say that Sharon has no idea what she’s saying, but he doesn’t. Instead, he nods, gives her a half-smile (which probably looks more like a grimace) and walks away.

*

He’s not quite sure how he ends up at Steve’s, but he’s standing on the blonde’s porch, holding two cups of coffee, waiting for him to answer the door. It takes a bit, but the door finally opens and Steve gives Bucky a curious look.

“I thought we could start over,” Bucky states offering Steve the cup. It takes a bit, but the blond accepts the coffee, and Bucky takes that a confirmation to continue, “I’m Bucky Barnes, but my sister calls me James.” He holds out his hand, waiting for Steve to shake it.

“Steve Rogers,” Steve says wrapping his big hand around Bucky’s smaller one. “It’s nice to meet you.” Still holding the brunet’s hand, the blond nods behind him and asks, “You want to come inside?”

With a smile, Bucky accepts, “Alright.”

It took a breakup, several mistakes, and a meltdown, but Bucky has finally realized that Sharon is not the love of his life. He doesn't know who the love of his life is, or if they even exist. It could be Steve, could be anyone else, and he may never find them but that's okay. Regardless if they exist or not, he's going to be fine.

And that's all anyone could ask for.

**Author's Note:**

> I can't write Smut. I tried, really I did, but I failed. If anyone wants to write the Smut parts, you're welcome to it. As long as you link back to the original story.


End file.
